Catharsis
by Vespaer
Summary: Just a heartwarming little one-shot about letting go and moving on.


**A/N: So... I know. I totally said I wasn't gonna write anything else until I finished AFDF. But I sat down and totally got stuck because this little plot bunny would NOT leave me alone. So, I got it out of my system and now I can get back to work YAY! Enjoy! Oh, and for all you folks who read A Far Distant Future - Ch12 - how about how Samuel kept referring to Sylar as a "lion"??? I found that to be... charming. =P**

**I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "T" for some language. Please review!**

**Catharsis**

He gasped bolt upright in bed, the distant echoes of Matt Parkman's straining cries still ringing between his ears.

'_You NEED me! You're NOTHING without me!!!_'

Though Parkman was obviously skilled when it came to the will of the mind – a fact that was not lost on him, having landed him in this situation that he thought might've ultimately saved his life – he was no match for the fury and determination that came from Sylar's cocktail of grief, hunger, and mental instability. The killer had completely subsumed the poor man, contorting his body into twisted expressions of rage, screaming with enough venom to rival that of a spoiled two-year-old, unable to comprehend exactly _how_ his own damned body wouldn't want _him_ back. Like Gabriel (as he _had_ to call himself because he _knew_ he wasn't Nathan) was nothing more than a vessel… But maybe that wasn't far from the truth, for who else was Gabriel? Just because he couldn't immediately answer the question didn't mean he didn't want to find out. On his _own_ terms. He was already carrying around a murderer's memories, and that was quite enough thank you very much.

For the first time in days since he'd returned to his old apartment – having absconded himself and his '_talents_' from the Circus under the promise that he'd _never_ allow himself to be manipulated in that way again – he was hungry. For a sandwich this time, not vengeance. There was a distinction. Dragging his aching body out of bed, he stumbled through the dark in search of bread and peanut butter. And maybe a banana.

'_I think you need ME. Ripping open heads isn't gonna bring her back…_' he could hear himself reply. He had been referring to their mother. Not just Virginia.

'_You couldn't handle it – look at you! You were NOTHING! You were NOBODY! You MADE me! Even YOU didn't want to be yourself! Look at what I've done for you – I made you better! I made you stronger!_'

'_You made me a monster._'

He'd just laughed. A sick, mocking laugh. Score – he did have one banana left!

'_You're such an idiot, you won't last ten days without me._' The laughter then dissolved into something else, something harsher. Matt Parkman's body began to gulp air and tremble into what appeared to be a combination of fear and… sadness?

'_Just let me back in and we can work this out. I promise. Aren't you tired of people using you? I can fix all of that. I can take it all away. You need me, you know you do._' He was begging. '_GABRIEL! I don't have anywhere else to go – you know it! Don't leave me out here – YOU NEED ME!!!_'

'_It's time to rest, Sylar, aren't you tired?_' Bennett had asked, gun still aimed at a friend that everyone knew he wouldn't shoot – he just didn't feel natural without the thing in his hands.

'_FUCK YOU, Bennett – shut the fuck up!!!_'

'_Sylar -_'

Parkman's body collapsed to his knees. Gabriel stacked exactly nine slices of banana on top of a thick layer of peanut butter.

'_Gabe? Please? Please! Please don't leave me – I don't wanna die!_' He'd always been big on self-preservation. So much so he'd become obsessed over a certain cheerleader.

'_You're not gonna die_,' he'd responded, '_you're just gonna sleep. Get some rest._'

Peter had used Matt Parkman's own ability against him. Neither Matt nor Sylar had seen it coming. Matt got his body back. Sylar didn't.

At last, the killer slept. Ironically, Gabriel hadn't slept well since.

Hitching up pajama pants that were drooping on his thinning hips, he munched on the deliciousness that was peanut butter and banana as he wandered through a doorway, leaving behind his living quarters and entering the dusty, cobwebbed, and abandoned wonderland that was the old watch shop.

A physical memory that wasn't at all unlike a ghost limb pulled his arm to the exact spot where the light switch rested. His innate curiosity flipped it on, illuminating the cramped, musty space with a dull yellow light. He stopped chewing long enough to stand and listen. Muffled by the sheets that had been draped over every standing surface came the rhythmic music of ticking – some precise, some in need of work, each one dancing like a tiny ballerina across a thin and secret tightrope of pleasure stretching deep across his most cherished places.

There was something here that _wasn't_ ticking, though. A tingling in his fingertips, still resting on the light switch, fired an image into his mind like a slingshot. In the far corner, a drawer under the workbench, the one on the very bottom – inside was an old, broken timepiece. He'd worked hard on it without success, the object was a complete enigma, insisting on remaining broken. His throat closed a little at the parallel. He could see the underbelly of the thing – there was a nameplate. Etched into it was a word… a name…

He tore his hand from the wall. It didn't serve him well to dwell on such things.

Giving up on his quest for sleep, he scarfed down the rest of his sandwich. He coughed and spluttered and sneezed as he ripped the first sheet into the air, bursting with a cloud of dust and desiccated spider bodies. His body thrummed with the excitement of discovery, and he tumbled through the wee hours of the morning laughing. It had been so long since he'd had a worthwhile task to occupy him. He was ready to get back to work.

~*~*~

Hells bells, she was late. Claire was late and she didn't even _think_ she was late – that was the real kicker. Her watch was slow, _again_. She'd fiddled so much with the damn thing, even changed the battery – _twice_ – to no avail. She ran across the manicured lawn outside the hall that housed her history class, heavy backpack filled with nothing but corners smacking pits into the small of her back. She was amazed she'd even signed up for a second semester after everything that'd happened over the past few weeks.

Her real father was dead. Had been for… some time.

The man who'd raised her – who's home provided a quiet refuge from all the troubles of the outside world, not to mention a place to do her laundry – had been involved in a demented plot that culminated in the worst lie he'd ever told her. She'd _believed_ him when he'd said he was working on redemption… yet he neglected to mention _anything_ about _this_. Her '_refuge_' had been invaded by deceit, loss, and pain. _Again_. She felt like she'd lost _two_ fathers. Though he promised he'd nothing left to hide, she didn't know how she could trust his words to be the truth. Unfortunately, he was among the only family she had left. Their relationship was a work in progress, as it had been for the past several years – the status quo had been maintained.

Perhaps she'd signed up for another round of classes as a way to distract herself from the things that were _really_ bothering her. While it did her no good to neglect her education, could she really afford not to confront the ugly truth that was Noah Bennett? And then there was the man who was in the middle of _everything_.

_Sylar_.

Or, _not_-Sylar, as the case may be.

Out of breath, she plopped down into a seat, tore her notebook out of her backpack, uncapped a pen with her teeth and started furiously scribbling notes in an attempt to catch up, having missed the first ten minutes of lecture. That was the biggest, most beautiful difference between high school and college – no one was ever ostracized for showing up late. It was understood you were on your _own_ time, and you got what you paid for. You reap what you sow. No one paid her any attention. Her mind wandered as her instructor continued to drone on and on. As diligent as she tried to be, history never managed to capture her interest.

Her father and Peter had come to rescue her from her Big Top kidnappers, who'd already managed to confiscate Matt Parkman (though truthfully he was all too eager to comply, under the impression that he'd finally be able to rid himself of his '_little hitchhiker_'). She'd been horrified to discover, upon her arrival, that the very body she'd seen burn what felt like forever ago to nothing more than a smoldering pile of wispy grey ash was in fact quite alive, walking and talking, and doing a very effective job of avoiding her direct eye contact. Matt, in conjunction with his… _significant other_, had decided very quickly and emphatically that a well-deserved explanation was in order – to hell with Bennett and Angela Petrelli. He gave her the whole truth.

Sometime after the altercation that had earned them their freedom from the Circus (along with a few tagalongs who'd also been hopeful to defect), and before she'd gotten the chance to really punch her dad as hard as she could, she'd witnessed the confrontation between the living body of Gabriel Gray and his other personality. She'd been rapt with wonder as she'd watched him reject his self-made demon – denounce him and draw a line in the sand, determined to live his own life from that moment on.

Her cheeks grew hot. To visualize every detail of his face invoked feelings of dread, rage, grief, and a hateful vengeance. '_I want to HURT him_,' she had vowed. She'd meant every word of it. And yet, there had been the bloom of something tiny and new in her stomach as she'd watched that same face fall, watched those shoulders drop, watched those eyes drift closed and that brow knit together with the weight of that moment as Peter worked his magic and Sylar – the mighty lion – winked out of existence like a star before the dawn. He looked like he'd just chopped off an arm and a leg and was left missing half of his body. There was a part of Gabriel that _did_ need Sylar, but was going to try to manage just the same. He'd made a _choice_ and was going to stick with it.

Not with a bang or a whimper.

Perhaps they shared more in common than an ability to heal. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at the thought. They were both reeling from loss, both victims of the same crime, left to piece together jagged edges of broken lives. They'd both been pierced by the same wound - one against which their ability was wholly ineffective.

She realized with chagrin that what she was feeling was affinity, colored a bit at the edges with envy. This penitent man had summoned what courage and strength and dignity he could muster and had walked away. Given as much as she loathed him and _hated_ admitting such a thing, it could only have been true. He'd found a way to square his shoulders and hold his head high when it was all over. He had confronted and he had _won_. She, on the other hand, was still glowering in the corner, hiding behind her books and her studies, hurt and afraid. Well, she couldn't let him be better than _her_, could she?

Before returning her attention span to the monotonous warblings of the man behind the podium, she made a commitment to herself to find her strength later that afternoon.

True to her word, that evening during a rare moment alone in her dorm room she called her grandmother in New York. She was coming for a visit, and she was going to get her watch fixed.

~*~*~

Her heels clicked on the wood grain of the floor. She'd worn long black pants and had done up her hair. Claire wasn't sure why she'd tried to give herself the image of being older than she was, but it was something she'd felt she needed to do anyway. Like, maybe the illusion of having a few more years of life experience would lend her courage or credibility, she didn't know. Truth be told, she didn't know how she was going to react when she saw him but she sure as _hell_ wasn't going to scream, run, or throw up. It was bad enough she could hear his voice, rising up from somewhere in the back of the shop – he was talking to someone.

She jumped and he was drowned out as the baritone bells of an enormous, austere mahogany grandfather clock near the door tolled the coming of the half hour. On the wall behind her a cuckoo clock began to sing, but further inspection showed her that the cuckoo was actually a peacock, hand-carved and ornately inlaid with abalone shell and mother-of-pearl. It was stunning. She spun a slow circle, taking in the atmosphere. Half-hung, cheerfully tan-colored folding blinds tempered the afternoon sunlight, filling the room with a warm, fuzzy glow. The shop was impeccably clean and was lightly scented with coffee – she suspected from a candle that was lazily flickering in the corner under a lamp, next to an antique cherry table clock. The place was too… comfortable for there to be any trace of Sylar. The edge on her nerves having been softened a bit, she ventured forward.

She passed a glass case containing old-fashioned pocket watches and beautiful, gem-stoned ladies' watches and entered into a hallway that had been charmingly speckled with hanging wall clocks of all sizes and shapes and colors and characters. There was pride here, and an almost child-like imagination.

The spell broke when he passed into view.

He'd shaven, and had a haircut. To her surprise, he emanated a youthful enthusiasm as he spoke to an older woman with the trace of a smile on his lips that _didn't_ betray any hints of sick amusement or ill intent. The woman had inherited a pocket watch from a particularly loved family member and wished to gift it to her son on his graduation day. It hadn't worked for decades – she'd love to see it go to good use. He had an idea what was wrong with it, and could possibly have it repaired for her by the end of the following day. '_You have no idea what this means to us_,' she had relayed, but he _did_. More than she knew. _He_ was the broken watch being put to good use.

He stumbled over his words as he noticed the shadow Claire cast in the background, and looked up directly into her eyes. Clearly startled, lips parted in a vain attempt to draw another breath, an inadvertent spark escaped his fingers and traveled up the wall. Fortunately, the woman missed it as she was digging in her purse for a business card, which she then produced in order to grant him her contact information. Looking up to resume her conversation, she switched her gaze back and forth between the clocksmith and Claire, noticing how the air in the room had suddenly grown thick with the very obvious history that existed between these two people. Feeling a tad awkward, she placed the card on his desk before saying her goodbye and excusing herself past Claire down the hallway. Once the woman had left, she heard the door lock and the blinds draw by themselves, as if by a disembodied spirit. Gabriel turned to face her fully, unable to look away. His body was taught with tension, his hands glowed with crackling blue energy – he was ready for a fight, immediately on the defensive.

Before the situation could escalate, she offered the object she held in her hand – a sort of peace offering.

"My watch stopped," she managed to squeak, mentally slapping herself for saying something so completely lame to her old nemesis.

His jaw dropped and his brows converged in obvious confusion, after which he puffed a small laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You mean, you came _all_ the way across the country to tell me your watch st-"

"I'm visiting my grandmother -"

"I thought you'd have a little more to say to me than, '_my watch st-_'"

"Oh what, like, '_you piece of shit, you killed my father and my mother and my friends and you'll never be a different person to me and I hope you choke?_' Is that what you were thinking? Or, how about this – how about, '_you're a miserable murderous bastard who'll never be anything more than that and you should be rotting away in your own self-delusion? And no one will ever accept you or love you or trust you and no matter how much you think you've changed you're still a sick, twisted fuck and it's only a matter of time until you snap again?'_ Does that about do the trick?"

He sat back against the corner of his desk, fingers clamped onto the wood, jaw clenched and grinding, dark eyes gleaming with warning. The rest of him, in stark contrast however, appeared completely deflated. She noticed for the first time, despite his hygiene and decorum, the rings under his eyes and the sallow sink to his cheeks. He wasn't eating and he wasn't sleeping. And while she felt a little better, she knew she was only attacking out of grief which ultimately would serve no purpose at all.

"Yeah, that'll do the trick," he finally relented, passing a hand through his hair ruffling it into soft, unruly peaks. "Gimme the damned watch so we can get you back to grandma's or whatever."

"It's consistently slow," she explained. "I've changed the battery, I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I didn't get it wet or anything…"

He put on a headset that would allow him to see things at various magnifications and she gaped as he telekinetically took the watch apart – suspending every ticking, spinning innard to hang magically in the air in front of him. He began his examination.

"You'd be surprised how water tight these things actually are," he explained around the tiny screwdriver he'd bitten between his teeth. "My guess is that it didn't like the last _building_ you jumped out of. Hah – sure as shit, look at that."

A tiny cog floated to within a few inches of her eyes – it was plain to see it was bent.

"That's not gonna tick too awful accurate, is it," he muttered as a replacement cog flew from a wall lined with bins containing spare parts to where it became lodged between his waiting fingertips. After he used the miniature tool to secure it in place, the rest of the exploded watch collapsed back in on itself, putting itself back together. He tucked it away next to his ear and listened with his eyes closed for a few moments before turning a knob on the side. The watch he gave back to her kept perfect time.

"Next time you jump out of any windows, run into burning buildings, or stand in front of a firing squad, try to remember to take the watch _off_."

Good to see he hadn't lost his sense of humor…

"What do I owe ya," she asked instinctively without thinking.

"Heh," he barked, "I killed your mother and your father and your friends and I'm a miserable murderous bastard who'll never be anything more than that. This one's on the house."

"Thanks," she mumbled as a weird silence passed between them. She wasn't sure what to do next. Sensing her discomfort he sighed.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he tossed over his shoulder as he turned toward the living quarters – specifically the kitchen. "Got bottled water, orange juice, a nice pinot -"

"- _NO -_"

"- and the staple of every bachelor: chocolate milk."

"That'll do."

"Fine."

"So, Mr. Bachelor, what happened to Lydia the Tattooed Lady?" she called to him after he'd disappeared through the doorway.

"Uhhh…" his lack of immediate articulation told her he was astonished she would even ask, "she… uhhh… she had places she needed to go."

"And that didn't include you?"

"Guess not. But, I've kinda got a lot on my plate _as well_, at the moment, ya know, so…"

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that." No, she wasn't.

He reappeared and handed her a tall, frosty glass of sweet brownish-grey goodness. She sipped it as she watched him retreat to a workbench piled over with different projects, littered with tools and spare parts. He pulled his magnifiers back over his eyes and switched on an overhead lamp.

"Okay, so you've given me a few of your choice words, you've gotten your watch fixed, what else are you here for?"

"How about an apology?"

The magnifiers were tipped back over his head in an instant as he gaped up at her in amazement.

"An….? Claire? Are you _serious_? '_I'm sorry_' is just gonna make this _ALL_ go away? Are you _kidding me_?" He stood up. He was upset. He met her toe to toe and stooped to meet her at eye level. From Sylar it would've been challenging. From this guy… "Claire, I _woke up_ buried alive and shot. The next day – _the very next day_ – I discovered that I'd ended the lives of dozens of people. I've separated children from parents. I've separated sisters from brothers, husbands from wives, lovers from… And some of them were people I _liked_, maybe even _cared _about, but I didn't stop. I lie _awake_ at night listening to them scream, beg, and cry. I can't keep food down. I'm terrified to talk to people because I'm afraid they'll see what I really am inside. I'm scared to _death_ that it really _is_ gonna happen all over again and that there's _no hope_ for me. I look at _you_ and…" He sighed and turned his back to her, massaging a pounding headache. "I look at you and all I see is fear and anger and blood and tears. And yeah, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it, I'm sorry every time I _inhale_, and I don't think I'm ever going to stop being sorry. I don't think there's a human being _alive_ who's ever felt this damn _sorry_." He whipped around to face her again. "And lemme tell ya, sorry ain't fixing a whole hell of a lot. I'm moving on, the best I can. You got your apology so why don't you go do the same. Go find your peace and leave me to mine."

But there _was_ something else.

"The ability you took from me. You're aware of what that implies, aren't you?" she began. He sat back down on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms in front of him.

"Sure. I can't get hurt," which he found to be painfully ironic considering the hurt he carried with him everywhere.

"Right, you won't get hurt, you won't get sick, and depending on the method you can even bounce back from getting killed. But it also means you won't _age_." She gave him a moment to let that sink in. She walked over to his workbench and took his seat. "You and I are immortal. When everything else in the universe has died and the Earth is nothing more than a smoking lump of rock hurtling through space, you and I are still gonna be standing on it. I guess I'm still here because…" She held her hand out but couldn't finish the statement. "I dunno. For a while I thought you were dead and… don't get me wrong, I threw confetti and did a rain dance and sang that song from the Wizard of Oz and everything – you know, the one about the witch being dead. But sometimes I still think, even if we're running in circles beating the tar out of each other for eternity… it's better than being alone."

He was silent for a bit while he sat and nodded, then abruptly he stood, proclaiming, "I need some air," before he left the room.

Not wanting to intrude on his private moment, she opted not to follow him and decided, instead, to intrude on the privacy of his _space_. She began to idly pull open the drawers of his workbench, lazily exploring their contents until she came to the bottom drawer. Having seen his skill with timepieces first hand, she was immediately curious why the one she found inside would remain not only in an inoperative state, but sequestered to an area as far out of reach as possible. Removing it, she turned it over a couple times in her hand, feeling its lavish and expensive weight, toying with its gleaming hinges. It was an old and valuable piece of machinery. She studied its face determining it had a style the likes of which she'd never seen. She flipped it over a final time, intent on finding some clue to the identity of its manufacturer. What she _did_ find, etched in the back, made her freeze with shock. The discovery held her transfixed – she had found, hidden away like a skeleton in a closet, his namesake.

When he returned he found her sitting very still and pale, and she had the offending item lying flat, on display, on the table top of the bench. The face he made was _far_ less than pleased but before he could say anything she abruptly stood and tossed him the jacket that had been draped over the back of the chair. She snatched up the old broken watch and moved toward the door.

"C'mon. Come with me. Something we gotta do."

"Claire, I need to -"

"Look, you _really_ wanna tell me you're sorry? Get yer butt in the car. Let's go."

~*~*~

"Claire, having had _actual_ experience killing people, if I were gonna dump a body, this is definitely where I'd go."

"You know, it's a good thing I didn't know years ago that forty-five minutes in a car would magically transform you into Captain Whiny McChicken Sissypants. I didn't bring you out here to _dispose_ of you. Just needed a nice secluded area with plenty of big rocks."

"Secluded. Big rocks. _Not _going to dispose of me. Right."

She sighed and turned the volume on the stereo up another notch. She continued another mile down the gravel road until she found an old abandoned driveway. She pulled in and cut the ignition. They were immediately struck by the sound of silence – the kind you can't get in the city. A warm spring breeze whispered through fledgling budding leaves and the songs of migratory birds chimed pleasant notes somewhere off in the distance.

Gabriel emerged from the car and turned his face to the sky, warming his cheeks for a moment with generous tranquil midday sunshine. A small squeal snatched his attention. Claire had been trying to crawl under a barbed-wire fence and had gotten herself caught.

"What are you doing -"

"Didn't exactly wear the right clothes for this -"

"Claire, this is trespassing…"

"Which is _still_ the least of your sins. Will ya help me out? Come on!"

"Why didn't you just step over?" he asked as he disentangled her shirt from the barbs.

"Don't make me say it."

"Is it because you're a midget?"

"Laugh it up, stupid. Just remember, you gotta live forever with me."

He gracefully swung his legs over the fence and followed her across a field until they reached a small creek.

"Claire, just because we don't get Lyme's Disease doesn't mean I wanna be crawling with ticks…"

"Oh my god are you _serious_? Did _Sylar_ bitch this much? Dude – it's too early for ticks yet, relax."

She found a large, flat piece of sandstone near the bank overlooking the creek bed. Scouring the area she found a pair of smaller, rounder nodules that would make excellent hammers. Satisfied, and completely mystifying her unwilling partner by her actions, she piled the stones together and dug the watch out of her pocket. She kept one hammer for herself and gave the other to Gabriel, then placed the watch on the flat sandstone table with the nameplate facing up. The single sinister word glittered in the sunlight nefariously.

_Sylar_.

"There's a word for this," she began, "it's Greek or Latin or something and it begins with a '_C_' but I'm drawing a blank. It means, '_to purge emotional stress through a symbolic act_' or something like that."

"Catharsis," he supplied.

"Yes! _Catharsis_! Yes – that's _exactly_ what this is. We are gonna take this watch and we are gonna go totally '_Office Space_' on it. We're gonna smash it to smithereens."

They both knelt on the ground before the stone, shoulder to shoulder. He looked at her sideways, eyebrows cocked up in disbelief, but her face was so resolute. She wasn't playing around.

"It's time to get this out of our lives," she continued. "It'll be good. You need this more than I do, you go first."

Right. He'd go first. Okay, here we go.

But the watch… it was a _part_ of him. He couldn't destroy it any more than he could destroy himself. His chest was achingly hollow as he stared at it, visions passing before him watching Sylar draw his last breath and close his eyes forever. This watch was his only physical reminder that he'd been someone else once, regardless of how fearsome that person had been. In some superstitious way, he felt that the watch's presence in his life would help prevent him from becoming that person again. Like, if he felt himself slipping, he could simply take it out of its hiding place and it would be his touchstone – it would save him.

But why should he need some inanimate object to help him make decisions about how he lived his life? He'd cast away Samuel and those who'd claimed to be his _family_ (however false) for the same offense. The bitter pull of yearning knotted in his throat when he thought of how easily he'd been fooled, desperate for love and belonging. How was a watch going to fix that? How was a watch was going to give him love and security and safety and affection? All this watch had done was give him a _name_ – a name he no longer answered to. A name that tethered him to a life he no longer wished to lead. He raised his stone… and set it down immediately.

"Claire… this thing is priceless… I can't smash it."

"Fine. Does the nameplate come off?"

"Yeah, but it's made of titanium, it's not gonna -"

"Just take it off."

He sighed in resignation. Holding his breath and with great care he telekinetically removed the plate while making sure he didn't drop any of the delicate inner workings of the watch to be lost for all time amongst the weeds and other plant detritus beneath his knees. He scooped the remainder of his beloved timepiece into his pocket and placed the metallic grey circle on the stone.

"Okay, now smack it, like this." Claire wasted no time as she lifted her stone high above her head and crashed it down onto the '_Sylar_'. She picked it back up and brought it down again – hard. She continued to repeat her assault for a few moments, the sound of her beatings echoing throughout the northern Appalachian hills, frightening off every form of wildlife in a three mile radius. When she was done, her cheeks were flushed and her breath came in quick heaving bursts.

"Your turn."

"So… I need this more than you do, huh?"

"Oh, just shut up and hit it with the damned rock!"

He squared himself off and lifted the stone. Something within him finally gave. He brought it down and the aftershocks of the impact buzzed through his elbows. He felt a roar surge from somewhere in his belly. He raised up, lifted the stone with both hands, and cried out with bitter frustration as he brought it down a second time, splitting it in two. Incredibly, he found himself completely overcome by a vicious anger.

"Fuckin' die, you son of a bitch," he hissed as he lifted the object and suspended it in the air, focusing on it every ounce of malice and pain that soaked the very fibers of his being. The small metal circle began to disintegrate, melting into a bubbling amorphous lump of goo before it finally ignited, burning away until it disappeared. Realizing what he'd done, Gabriel shot out a hand though he knew it was too late – what was done was done.

"Just when I thought you _weren't_ still incredibly scary…"

Her voice seemed distant compared to the rushing in his ears. He sat back on his heels, lightheaded and reeling with an inexplicable sense of loss, before he finally dropped his face into his hands. Bending at the waist, he lowered his head close to the ground, breathless and empty. It was done now – it was gone. It wasn't coming back. He'd made his choice. He began to softly cry, he couldn't help it, having never felt so alone in… well he really couldn't remember, could he?

Until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Gentle fingers lightly caressed the outline of his shoulder blade, running up and down in a sweetly soothing rhythm. She didn't know what had possessed her to do it, only that she _did_. He _wasn't_ alone. He was _never_ going to be alone, not really. And they didn't have to chase each other in circles or beat the tar out of each other, either. They were the masters of their own destinies and they could be whatever they wanted. Eternity was a long, long time.

"I want ice cream," he heard her whisper in his ear. He turned to meet her gaze through moist, glistening eyelashes. He sniffled and rubbed away his tears on his jacket sleeve before she could get a good look at them, then sat back up.

"Okay," he answered, stifling a smile.

Later that evening he enjoyed double fudge chocolate while she slurped on very berry strawberry. They made polite conversation and people-watched on a busy New York boulevard. He answered questions she had about her math homework and she laughed at something he'd said that'd struck her funny at the time. The next day she caught a plane back to California but not before mentioning that maybe she'd drop by when she came to visit the Petrellis over the summer. He went back to work and never looked at the broken watch again.

Claire had a long conversation with her father.

And everything turned out just _fine_.

**A/N #2: "So, Mr. Bachelor, what happened to Lydia the Tattooed Lady?" Can anyone else hear Robin Williams singing that song he sang in the Fisher King?**


End file.
